


Ad Vincula

by tartanroyaltea



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Ancient Rome, Captivity, Drama, F/M, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Tom Hiddleston's Coriolanus, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanroyaltea/pseuds/tartanroyaltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After defecting to the Volscian army, Coriolanus sets about conquering Roman strongholds. While occupying a walled town, he takes a shine to the governor’s feisty wife, Lucretia, and claims her as a spoil of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a vague retelling of Shakespeare's Coriolanus, inspired by the Donmar's production in 2013-4 starring Tom Hiddleston. The story does deviate significantly from the canon. Please be aware: this is a dark story containing graphic violence, rape and other horrible things. Not for the faint of heart.

The soldiers storm the front gates; their palace is compromised in mere minutes. The senator’s wife, bearing the ill-fated name of Lucretia, locks herself and his daughter, Pomponia, a plump beauty of sixteen years, into the anti-chamber of the senator’s private suites.  She knows it is hopeless, but it is instinct for the prey to run, so she does. The soldiers employ sweet language, coaxing her to debar the great doors. Pomponia trembles in a corner of the room, her skin is flushed a brilliant pink, her blonde hair tumbles dishevelled over her round, guileless blue eyes. She is not the girl’s mother; she is too young, not even ten years older. She is no one’s mother.

The soldiers have traded sweet words for a battering ram. Perhaps they think the senator is inside? They shout in a blur of Volscian and Roman; her keen ears pick up the words ‘husband’, ‘here’. So he is outside, with the Volscian soldiers, those barbarians. The ambush on the town is no surprise; Ardea is surrounded by Volscian territory on all sides, save one: Rome, to the north. Not that the Romans are much use, too busy squabbling among themselves; patricians and plebeians slitting each other’s throats. It seems to her that if the Volscians simply bide their time, Rome will destroy itself. But then, she isn’t supposed to know, or think, anything. Politics are for her husband.

 She is frantic, searching for a weapon in the room. A poker from the fire. Not impressive, but better than her own hands. Pomponia sobs into the crooks of her elbows, hiding her pretty face. She grips the poker tighter, ready to skewer any man who touches her sweet daughter. She cares little for herself; she is too uncomely to attract attention. The ornate doors splinter; soldiers begin to emerge, crashing and tearing through the lacquered wood. The metal slips in her damp palms, but she holds it aloft, sharp point aimed at the intruders. They are dirty and unkempt, typical soldiers, but not so weary, she thinks. They have not travelled far.

The soldiers eye her with some amusement, but none step close to her. They fan out, creating a half circle by the doors, now hanging in tatters on their hinges. A tall man strides in, authority written in every movement, in every line of his body. She grips the poker tighter, gritting her teeth. His eyes flicker first to the heap of linen and crying girl in the corner, second to the scrawny, sallow-skinned tigress in the centre of the room, every sinew ready to pounce. He grins, sheathing his short sword. She notices her husband, old and deflated, standing behind this man, this leader. _Ah, we have found your wife at last_ , remarks the man in sharp Roman syllables, not taking his eyes off her. She longs to stab them.

He walks toward her slowly, in a circular motion, as if approaching some wild, but non-lethal animal. She turns to follow him, edging back closer to Pomponia, lest he strike too fast. He stops dead, she does the same. He calls her his ‘hostess’, as if he was a guest, not the leader of a garrison conquering her household. His troops are in need of bathing, and sustenance. His accent is pure Roman, and she wonders why he is at the head of a Volscian army. He steps forward, suddenly, and she flinches, as if struck. Pomponia wails loudly. She complies to his demands. He nods, but as he walks away, she says _see that your men harm none of my household, traitor._ Her husband, the ancient fool, gasps in shock. She is a Roman lady now, but she was born on the isle of Sicily and her blood burns hotter than most. The intruder turns back, looking at her properly this time. His mouth curls in amusement, but he does not respond to her insult. Yet.

*

Dinner is a torment. The General, as he calls himself, forces the host family to eat dinner with him- and his troops, of which there are over a hundred. They have conquered the entirety of their small walled city in a single afternoon, and they are ravenous. Her servants attempt to behave as normal, but they jitter and twitch, fearing attack at any moment. The soldiers sit at separate long tables in the great hall, shouting over one another, banging their fists and guzzling food like savages. The General sits at the head table, in her husband’s position. He is relaxed, content with the day’s work; he sits in the rich high-backed chair as if it is his due.

As they wait for the food to be served, she takes her chance to survey him more carefully. He is fair; light-skinned, but sun-weathered, with cropped golden hair. She has only seen him move a little, but she thinks his body is lithe and quick and strong, like one of those Afric cats, the size of small horses. His face is made of sharp features- nose, jaw, cheekbones, all.

His eyes are sharp, too. She flinches when they snap to hers. He beckons her with two long fingers, crooked. She swallows, looks to her husband. He stares fixedly at the table beneath his fists. She slowly rises, and in tense silence, walks around to stand beside the turncoat general.

 _“_ Serve me _”,_ he says. It is not a request. She carves scraps of bloody meat and places them before him. She fills his goblet with wine, struggling around her voluminous sleeves. The servants watch anxiously from the edges of the room. Even his soldiers seem to have paused to view the show.

He speaks again, in a deep, low voice. She must have misheard him. He doesn’t repeat it. His arm winds around her middle, pulling her down to sit side saddle across his lap. She burns scarlet; the soldiers cheer. She feeds the general with her own hands. He bites and licks at her fingers, his dark blue eyes flashing. She has never been so humiliated. Her husband cannot bear to look at her. The general’s hands sear through her garments, burning her hip and leg, holding her tight against his hard frame. He smells of sweat and blood and _man_.

When the food is done, the General announces that he will retire for the night. She swiftly slides off his lap, relieved to be freed. He catches her before she has taken a step; his arm around her waist again, anchoring her to his side. He looks to her husband. _You are a gracious host, to gift a man with your wife_ , he says lowly, brooking no argument. Her husband’s mouth opens and closes, beyond words. Pomponia begins to cry anew. It is a rather puzzling turn of events. She is not beautiful, not by Roman standards; she is too thin, like a plebeian, her hair is thick, blue-black, her narrow eyes are the colour of coals. Pomponia is the beauty, fleshy, with an angelic face, and pink and white skin. The General does not appear to be concerned with Roman standards. He commands her to lead him to her husband’s bedchamber. He growls at a servant who attempts to attend upon his mistress.

She tilts her head up (though she feels like crying) and walks with dignity from the hall, even as the soldiers laugh and applaud their leader raucously, even though she knows what awaits her in the bedchamber. The General follows her, a constant shadow straining over her own.

She lights the candle stubs with shaking hands. There are dozens littered around the chamber, but the General commands her to stop when she has lit only a few. He is impatient. Or he prefers the dark; she is unsure which is more true.

He sits at the edge of their marital bed, his long legs splayed wide apart.

“Come here,” he commands, pointing at the spot between them. She moves stiffly, standing where he wishes, staring at the wall behind his head. He gestures downwards and she flushes, biting her lip to fight back furious tears as she lowers onto her knees, bracketed by his legs.

“Do not sit idle. Undress me.” His gaze is disconcerting as she fumbles with the lacings on his boots, the supple leather breastplate, his worn undershirt. She stretches up to unravel the faded scarf wrapped around his neck, her insides jumping at the sight of the long white scar that slices from jugular to collarbone. She wishes it had killed him, that blade- she would have been spared this humiliation. He would not be here, and nor would she; she would be at the dinner table, eating quietly and pointedly ignoring her husband’s arduous complaints about his rivals. An easy life, it was, a boring life.

The hot hardness of his member makes itself known as she gingerly unlaces his breeches. She promises herself that she will not scream, nor cry, nor run from him. She will be iron, cold and inflexible.

He grasps her wrist, pressing her hand against the eager flesh. Anger bubbles in her gut and she wrenches herself free, striking his face with all of her might, her knuckles breaking across cheekbone. So much for iron. She let the fire win, as always.

The general is on his feet, no less intimidating for his lack of clothes. She knows her mistake now, knew it the instant her palm connected with his cheekbone. Her back presses against the stone wall, but she has nowhere else to go. His eyes glint in the dark, like hot flints.

She prepares herself for pain as his hands reach for her, but he does not rend skin, only fabric, tearing her gown in half and wrenching it from her shaking body. He presses up against her, his bare skin burning against hers. A hand winds in her hair, wrenching her head back until she is all but staring at the ceiling. His breath tickles across her temples, down towards her jaw.

“That… was… very…foolish,” he hums, saving each rough word for a drawn out breath. His teeth drag across her throat and she panics, for a split second fearing that he intends to bite her until her blood flows out in rivers. There are stories- whispers- of such daemons; she looks at him, and thinks he could be one. It’s the eyes.

She holds her hands by her side, fighting her nature to strike out, demand that he release her. She knows that the fire won’t work on him- he is akin to a block of ice, solid and impenetrable.

His fingers tighten on her scalp, forcing her to walk with him or lose a fistful of hair. He positions her at the end of the bed, crowding behind her until her body is pressed up against a bedpost. He releases her hair, catching both scrabbling hands in one of his and stretching her up, up, farther than she can reach. She balances on the tips of her poor toes as he ties a thick pelt of fabric across and around her wrists, immobilizing her in this strange shape.

She cannot see him, more’s the pity, but his breath caresses softly across her shoulders, telling her where he is, one ghostlike hand mimicking the shape of her from ribs to hips, dipping in at her narrow waist.

His touch and the deep, slow sound of his breathing almost relax her. It only makes the shock worse, when his wandering hands find the scars lashed across her buttocks. His breath starts, a small grunt of surprise.

“You have earned yourself these stripes before,” he comments, thoughtfully. ‘ _Before’?_

The grain of rough leather – a familiar sensation- grazes her lower back, trailing down over the existing ridges and scars. Her heart plummets to her straining toes, her gut boiling with hot, icy terror. He is going to whip her, Gods be good, she swore to herself last year that it was over, that she would never live through that again. It had taken so little – ah, if only she had known all those years of suffering!- to cow her husband, to quell his wrath. What fool thinks beating his wife will produce sons? The harder he beat her, the harder Lucretia grit her teeth and swore that she would never bear his spawn, the harder her beat her…on and on. Circles.

Right back to the start.

“I am your master now. You will learn to obey me, in time. But for now, I must needs punish you,” the General purrs, his lips almost kissing the shell of her ear. His calloused fingers grip her chin, pulling her face back to his. “This will hurt. I want you to scream.” His face blurs as tears bud in the corners of her eyes, betraying her fear. What use in hiding it? He can likely smell it off her, read it in the tense lines of her shoulders and buttocks, awaiting the first hit.

He gets his wish, immediately. A ragged shriek wrenches from her throat as the pain of the first hit registers in her nerve-endings. The belt licks at her flesh a second time, a third, a fourth…fifth…Gods be praised for small mercies, he held the buckle tight in his fist. Her husband had always used the buckle most cruelly, allowing the bejewelled gold to tear through her tender skin.

It is over so quickly, yet so slowly. It may have been a mere minute, it may have been an hour.

She falls limp as he unties her, his strong arms curving behind her knees and shoulders, lifting her and placing her –almost gently- in the centre of her bed. She doesn’t beg for mercy; her mouth is dry, tongue frozen with fear. Her blood throbs beneath her, drawn to the apex of her pain. Their fine bed sheets are rough and grainy to her now.

The General pushes his breeches down over his slim hips, watching her with a heaving chest and hooded eyelids. He climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. She pretends to be a corpse, even stilting her breathing for full effect. Better dead, than living through this.

He touches her more than she likes, more than she thinks is proper. She has heard of violations before, hideous crimes so frequent in the streets of the Capitol; in the stories they are always swift, always violent. No hesitating, no fearful anticipation.

Her husband never touched her like this, never ran open palms along her thin arms, across her sharp collarbones, seeking out her small breasts, stroking her ankles, up the length of her legs. Being touched like this, she thinks, it could be nice. More than nice, it could be pleasurable. If not for him- if only it wasn’t _his_ hands doing it.

 _Hurry up! Do it now!_ She thinks, screaming in her head. She wants it to be over, a past tense. She wants to curl up and cry and pity herself, but she has to be alone. She won’t let him see. Corpses don’t cry, after all.

She comes back to life when he touches her, in that secret place that only she knows about, the one that makes her gasp and moan like a whore.  She touches herself there, sometimes, when the palazzo baths are empty of prying eyes; her mind falling away as her fingers pump under the warm water, her cries of pleasure evaporating in the heavy clouds of steam.

Her eyes catch his; they smile, knowingly.

But Gods be praised, he does not violate her in more ways than one. He surges forwards, fast and vicious, hips snapping, teeth snarling.

She is still, unmovable; she makes no sound, gives him nothing else.

The pain is bearable, she thinks dispassionately, certainly no worse than the lashes from the belt.

He must not have had a bedfellow for many days. It is over so swiftly, like a breeze tearing through a room, seeping out the cracks. His large frame looms over her, every sinew tensing as he roars to the heavens. She stares up at the ropes of veins on his curved neck, thinking: this is it, this is the moment I would do it. Ecstasy to tragedy before you can blink.

He rolls away, lying spread eagle on his back. She wriggles to the edge of the bed, knowing better than to try and leave. She heard the key turn in the lock, when they first entered the chamber. She presses her cheek into the pillow, her eyes leaking as she shuts them tight.

Somehow, she sleeps. Drifting from one nightmare into another.

She stirs, groggy, unsure as to whether she slept or no. The candles have burned a little lower, but no daylight has breached the drapes, as yet. It is still night.

Her ears prick, listening for her bedfellow. His deep, steady breaths mingle with the occasional snore. She listens for a long time, ensuring it is not a trick. But no, he is really asleep. A deep sleep, deeper than any wise soldier would indulge in, while in enemy territory.

What threat is a lone woman?

She keeps her back to him, gradually guiding a trembling hand to the bureau, her polished nails digging into the drawer, carefully easing it open. Her fingertips grope around, settling on metal scales. Her hand returns to her, bearing a slim gold collar, shaped like a serpent. She grasps the snake’s head, its emerald eyes glinting up at her, flickering in the candlelight as if it lives.

There are only two living things in the chamber. Soon to be one.

The blade sings a mournful melody as it slides from its sheath; the flexible, slender metal reconfiguring when it is free of its confines. It is her favourite possession- a pretty necklace, with a wicked stiletto hidden inside.

She sets the snake skin down on the bureau, cautiously rolling onto her back, the blade held firmly in her sweating palm. She stares at the canopy above the bed, counting his breaths again. Still sleeping. It is a merciful death she is giving him, he will be dead before he realises it. But it is an inglorious end, she muses, inglorious for a Roman-turned-Volscian general to be stabbed in bed, by the woman he had violated only hours before. Justice.

She twirls the blade, thinking how best to do the deed. It is not a dagger, nor a parring knife. It is meant to stab, not slice. She will need to cut off his life’s blood, with the very first strike. No room for error.

She martials her courage, her anger, her fury, and rolls towards him, rising up on her knees, reaching one leg over until she kneels above him. She watches the timely thump of his artery, entranced by the fluttering movement. _There, right there_ …

His breath stutters, a whimper like a child’s erupting from his thin lips. She stills, the tip of the stiletto a hair’s breadth from his throat. He looks different when he sleeps- less cruel, less fearsome.

_Don’t be a fool! He is cruel, he is fearsome. Remember what he did to you!_

The momentary weakness passes. She grits her teeth, the muscles in her arm contracting, drawing back, like an arrow strung in a bow. Aiming for the target…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, rape/non-con and allusions to violence. Please proceed with caution.

His eyes flick open, pupils glinting like onyx, his lips curled in a sneer. Her wrist is caught, wrenched, twisted, _crushed_ until the blade falls from her grasp.

It happens too fast. She is pinned on her back, his fingers digging into her jaw. His other hand directs the blade – _her own blade!_ \- to her throat, the cold nip of steel tracing her veins.

She stares up at him, knowing, _this is fear_. Whatever it was she felt earlier, it was nothing. This is mortal fear; she can taste the death on her tongue.

“You surprise me…” he murmurs, his eyes flicking across her face, seeking an explanation. “I knew you had gall, but trying to kill me? Why? Have I wounded your honour so, to take you from your _loving_ husband?” he mocks, his nose almost brushing hers as he whispers.

“You…raped…me,” she hisses, her throat contracting under his harsh grip.

“And what has your husband been doing to you all these years? Loving you? Bringing you to the heights of paradise?”

Her eyes slide away, with embarrassment, with sorrow.

His voice dips lower, his lips ghosting against hers. “He owned you, he took his pleasure from you. Now, I own you. And you shall give _me_ pleasure.”

“Unless…you would prefer that I kill you. Is that what you want?”

She glares at him. She lies.

“Yes.”

They stare at one another, suspended in time.

He bares his teeth in a taunting grin.

“ _Liar_. You are my property, and I have no intention of wasting you.”

He stares into her black eyes; deep as wells, a sea without a bed, the night sky without limit. You could fall into them for ever, and never be freed.

He grazes his teeth against her lips, an animal gesture, reluctantly relinquishing his hold on her slim throat. She gulps in the air, greedily, watching him warily. He merely smirks, settling onto the mattress beside her as if her attempt on his life had never happened.

He falls back to sleep swiftly, the stiletto blade held safely beneath his pillow as his bedfellow stares at the canopy, witnessing her own future turn to blackness.

*

The sun shines in, and she fetches another, untorn dress from the trunk. He pulls on his boots and declares, “We depart this morn.”

She has no preparations to make; it would be like planning for her own funeral. She is leaving, never to return.

She stands in the bustling courtyard, embracing her crying daughter while the soldiers scurry around, readying themselves for the journey ahead. Her nose brushes the ringlets at Pomponia’s temple, jostling the sweet scent of lavender. A smell of peace, of lazy summer afternoons. No more.

“Come,” he commands, hoisting her onto his warhorse while Pomponia struggles against her father. She grips the pommel of the saddle awkwardly, trying to arrange her skirts in a modest fashion; anything to distract from her own tears, or the sound of Pomponia’s sobbing.

The General vaults up behind her, too close for comfort. His arms encompass her, long fingers winding through the reins as the cavalcade begins to move out. She does not look back at the palazzo, that gaudy prison. She glances at the scores of troops left behind, to fortify this new Volscian conquest. Her eyes latch onto Pomponia, wordlessly heaping all manner of prayers and blessings onto her sweet, fair girl.

The peasants’ grubby faces turn up as they parade past; only the creak of the supply wagons and the metallic _clop_ of the horses’ hooves can be heard in the silence. Do they know her, their august lady? Their expressions are as carefully blank as her own.

Outside the city walls, they halt. The General slips a strip of fabric over her eyes and knots it behind her head. Hempen rope binds her hands to the saddle. _What, does he expect her to jump six feet from a warhorse, blindfolded, and make a bid for freedom? And why wait until they were outside the city to truss her up thusly? Did he wish to make the peasants believe that she was aught but a captive?_ These thoughts slide sluggishly through her mind, but none ever make it to her tongue.

The General puts an arm across her belly and nudges his horse forward, hips rocking against her with every step. They ride for hours; she marks the time by the heat of the sun, its angle on her shoulders. When they stop, only ever for mere minutes, he presses a skein of watered wine to her lips, tilting her head back until she drinks. He can’t have his prize dying of heat stroke within the first day.

The saddle grinds between her thighs, rubbing the tender skin with every stride. Ladies do not sit, splay-legged on horseback, they are carried in litters for a reason. Had she known this was ahead of her, she would have procured a pair of breeches. Not that breeches would have done anything to alleviate the fire burning in her buttocks, the rub of the saddle mimicking the strikes of his belt from the previous night. She grits her teeth and says nothing, forcing back any shudders of agony.

She is hungry almost instantly, her stomach voicing it confusion. See how easily one gets spoiled, needing fed every couple of hours? There is no sympathy for such gluttony in an army, forever on the brink of hunger.

She wonders where they are headed, this rugged little band. Her bet is Antium, the Volscian ‘capital’, only two days hard ride from Ardea. And they are certainly riding hard; the horse rocks and jolts beneath her, its muscles slipping beneath her own idle legs. The wind whips past, smarting her cheeks. The General’s chest heaves against her back, his breath tickling down her back, sweat beading from the exertion of holding both of them upright on a galloping horse. She does not help him, impersonating a sack of grain. Like the ones they squabble over daily in his Capitol.

They stop for the night when the sun falls from the sky. He unties her and lifts her down from their foaming steed, leading her into a simple tent. She is surprised that they have one at all; the camp followers must have charged ahead and set up. He leaves her perched on the makeshift bed- a pallet heaped with pelts, and returns shortly after with a whole cooked chicken, pulling it apart with greasy fingers and watching her as she nibbles at the meat. When he is satisfied she has eaten enough, he undresses, climbing onto the bed beside her.

She tenses, waiting for him to reach for her.

“Sleep,” he commands, his voice thick with weariness, “We must travel twice as far tomorrow.”

She lies down stiffly, watching the candlelight stutter and waver across the skin of the tent. She wishes she had her dagger, if only to silence his snores.

*

She is shaken awake at first light, the camp swiftly collapsing around her. She gnaws on the stone-cold chicken bones, anticipating little sustenance during their travels. The General binds her hands and blindfolds her as before; when he settles behind her in the saddle, it is as if the previous day is being repeated. There are differences; her buttocks and inner thighs rub even more painfully than before, her muscles ache from sitting so stiffly for so many hours, and her soul thrums with increasing disquiet the farther they travel from her home.

This is no game. If what he says is true, they will reach the basecamp by nightfall, and she has no concept of what may happen to her there. Suppose the General has already tired of her, and has decided to sell her on? What if her new owner is a crueller master than he? What if she is sent to a pleasure house, condemned to rot from the inside in dark, sweating beds?

The General is a man of few words. He speaks sparely to his soldiers; only when giving an order or when directly addressed. He never speaks to her- the only notice he pays her throughout the day is giving her sips from his wine skein. She stews in her own fearful thoughts, hour after hour.

The sun is long set before she hears it; the steady, low thrum of the camp, thousands of voices melting into one. Her heart floods with ice-cold fear, as the volume rises and rises, until they are parading through the camp proper, cheers from all sides heralding their arrival. ‘Coriolanus! Coriolanus!’ they shout, peppering their excitement with an incomprehensible cacophony of Volscian. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, wishing to be invisible.

They stop, at long last. And, as before, the General lifts her from the horse, all but carrying her into a warm tent. He sets her on the bed- a proper one, this time- and removes her blindfold. She frowns as he moves away, forgetful of her bound wrists. She knows better than to remind him.

The tent is plush, as large as her bedchamber in the palazzo, and well furnished. The bed she sits on is artfully carved, with proper sheets and throws. There is a fire pit, surrounded by various, mismatched chairs. The floor is covered with clean hides, and decorated with several Persian carpets. This is a permanent residence- at least, insofar as a tent in a war camp is permanent. If she had any doubts about the General’s status, she has none now. A King on campaign could not be disappointed by this accommodation.

He pulls off his breastplate without ceremony, stripping off his sweat-soaked undershirt. The tent flap opens, and a small group of rowdy men enter.

The foremost man is dark-haired and bearded, and dwarfed by the lean General.

“Our brother, Coriolanus!” he booms, extending his gauntleted arms to his comrade, his face split with obvious delight. From her perch, she notes the tension in the General’s scarred shoulders as they embrace. “Aufidius,” he acknowledges, reluctantly. Her stomach drops- she knows the name well.

“And what is this?” The Volscian leader enquires. She stares fixedly at her helpless hands, but she feels the heavy gaze of the man, nonetheless.

“A new acquisition,” the General states, his voice laced with indifference. Aufidius and his comrades laugh heartily.

“An expensive acquisition, I do not doubt,” Aufidius remarks.

The General smirks. “ _Gratis_. A most generous gift from her husband, the senator.” She trembles at his cruel words, but refuses to react, reluctant to draw attention to herself.

She hears footsteps approaching; every muscle tenses as Aufidius stands before her. She keeps her eyes dropped, half-closed, even as he grips her jaw, tilting her face from side to side, as if sizing up a mare for purchase.

A small gasp tears from her lips as he grabs her arm, pulling her to her feet. She stands, helpless, as he wrenches at the neck of her gown, tugging ruthlessly until it surrenders and pools lazily around her ankles. Her eyes shut with humiliation, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as he walks around her, surveying her with utmost scrutiny.

“I see you have had to discipline her already, brother!” he tisks jovially, pinching her bruised buttocks sharply. She jumps, her eyes flying open just in time to see the General’s jaw flex with barely-concealed irritation, his long fingers turning white as they grip the chalice. The men around him leer at her, but she does not give them the satisfaction of seeing her attempt to cover herself.

She unhooks her mind, letting it drift back some years, to the dark sand beaches and rocky shores of her childhood, imagining the waves lapping at her feet, the salt air rushing past her…

The only air that rushes past her is that of the camp- warm, seething and bearing the smell of charred meat as the rowdy troupe of Volscians exit. She stares mournfully down at the remains of her only gown, certain that the General will not be forthcoming in providing her with a replacement.

She peers at him from between her damp lashes, her skin erupting in goose-bumps when their eyes meet. He frightens her, this man, more than any other. Aufidius, he is frightening, because she knows he has power- command of over fifty thousand men at his fingertips. The General is frightening because she cannot read him, cannot fathom an explanation from the statuesque stamp of his features, nor his flat grey eyes. He is disquieting, unsettling. He makes Aufidius seem like a circus bear, all bustling and loud noises, claws filed down to soft edges.

He lifts the gold chalice, his throat rippling as he swallows the strong, fragrant wine in one gulp. He slams it down on the table with unnecessary force, striding over and _finally_ untying the rope from her raw wrists.

“On the bed,” he commands, his voice low and rough as stone.

She keeps her eyes respectfully dipped and climbs obediently onto the bed, lying out like a perfect effigy. Her fight hasn’t left her, oh no, she is simply waiting, waiting for the wheel of fortune to turn and provide her with the chance to strike at the very heart of this man.

He follows her, prising her legs open wide enough so that he can kneel comfortably between them. And then, he does it _again_.

His calloused hands begin at the bones of her slim ankles, firmly stroking their way up her calves, crossing her knees and kneading the soft flesh of her thighs. She chews the inside of her cheek, furious at his determination to…do…something. The harder she thinks, the less she understands what he is trying to achieve. By Hera, can’t he simply do his business in a timely fashion and leave her in peace?

His wide palms cup her sharp hips, his thumbs converging over the top of her sex. Her eyes begin to sting from her unwillingness to close them, to concede any action that may be misconstrued as pleasure.

“Look at me,” he breathes, so quietly she thinks she may have imagined it.

She draws in a deep breath, reluctantly arcing her eyes down to his, immediately glazing them to remove the sharpness of his stare. She does not want to be punished again, when the reminders of her first punishment are so fresh.

His eyes hold hers, like snares, as his thumb stretches farther, purposefully brushing against that little hidden gem. Her muscles contract instantly, tight as a bow-string, a strangled noise erupting from her throat.

“ _No!”_ Her hands claw at his, scratching his wrists and forearms until he loses patience, grasping her flailing hands and pinning her down with his body weight. Her head thrashes against the bed, her cheeks livid red and she tries –and fails- to escape him.

She is smart; she doesn’t waste much time trying to escape. When she is calmed, if only a little, he asks: “Do you not want pleasure?”

“Not from you,” she hisses, loading as much venom as possible into that pronoun. Her chances of being punished hang in the balance, weighing in the scales…

Something flickers behind his stone-grey eyes. “As you wish,” he concedes, with a nonchalant shrug.

True to his word, she finds no pleasure that night.

*

She stirs early the next morning, disquieted by the cacophony of camp life. The General is already up, fully dressed and pulling on his boots.

She sits up slowly, grateful for having managed a few hours of light sleep the previous night, but still bone-weary.

A cloud of white, hanging over one of the chairs, catches her eye. The General follows the line of her gaze, lifting the repaired gown and handing it to her without a word.

She hastily pulls it over her head, fearful that he will change his mind. It is a small dignity, to have clothes to wear.

“You do not leave this tent,” he states, fastening a sword belt around his slim hips. He doesn’t need to add ‘if you do, you will be punished’; the threat hangs in the air, unsaid.

She nods, staring at the floor. When she next looks up, he is gone, moving as silently as a predator.

It is a dull occupation, she decides, being a bed-slave, even more boring than being a wife. She can only be but idle when her master is absent. There is nothing for amusement in the tent; no books, no bards, no embroidery. Nothing.

A guard enters, at what must be around noon. She is almost excited at the prospect of human contact, but he is gone before she can even speak, leaving a plate of figs, cheese and various meats on a pewter dish. She sits down to her little feast, and helps herself to the General’s skein of unwatered wine; it rushes through her veins, warming her pallid cheeks and hazing the dull panic that now lives permanently in the back of her mind.

The wine is a mistake, she knows it very quickly; it has severed the thread of her judgment. She watches the shadow of her guard like a cat, pouncing the instant it moves away, no doubt so that he may relieve his bladder.

She darts out into the waning sunlight, rushing headlong into the maze of people and tents and animals.


	3. Chapter 3

Her eyes feast on everything, ears straining to pick up the separate threads of sound among the cacophony of the camp. She hears laughter, music, arguments, the whir of metal, the squawks of hawking birds, the various noises of fodder animals. The camp is as alive as any town; if she shut her eyes, shut out the fear, she could be in the Capitol itself, a whirring, burring place she has visited only a handful of times. It smells like the Capitol, she thinks, the smell of so many unwashed humans and animals living on top of one another.

The narrow paths between the tents are crowded with people, all jostling and hurrying wherever it is they must go; she relishes the feeling of being invisible, yet she notes with rising concern that there are scarcely any women walking about- the few that are, are in the company of gruff men, men who hold tightly to their arms, or to the collars around their necks. She is not the only slave here.

A soldier knocks into her when she stops dead, eyes wide with horror as she rounds a corner and sees an enormous cage. It is the height of two men, as large around as a tent and filled with dirty women dressed in rags. Some sit, dejected, on the ground, others, the newest ones, no doubt, heckle the guards standing watch over them. Lucretia mutters an apology to the disgruntled soldier, massaging the spot where his armour bumped her shoulder. She does not linger long beside that horrid cage, afraid that someone may decide to put her in it. She wonders who the slaves belong to: do they have one master, like her? Or are they owned by the camp at large? She shudders, thanking the gods that, although a slave, she lives in some comfort. Another gilded cage.

The sight of the cage has tarnished her excitement, dulling the flush of wine in her mind. She tries to turn around on the spot, but the rush of people makes it impossible. She walks on, briskly, searching for a turning point. She feels vulnerable, exposed. She needs to get back to the General’s tent.

She is pushed along with the current, through tight bends and sodden dirt paths, until, suddenly, the space opens up, revealing an enormous pavilion tent, even grander than the General’s. Her heart leaps with fear, knowing that such grandeur could belong to only one person.

And there he stands, barking orders to a guardsman a head taller than him, just outside the entrance to his abode. She cannot drag her eyes away from him, and he must feel the heat of her stare, for he inexplicably looks to the side, directly at the spot where she stands, ignoring the angry sounds of the travellers having to push past her.

His eyes flicker with recognition, the edges of his lips beginning to curl just as she scurries away, back into the melee maze of the camp. Her feet pound against the earth as she weaves between the tents, desperate to return to the relative safety of the General’s abode. Something in Aufidius’ look kindled fresh fear in her, and she ignores the burning in her lungs as she spots the distinctive top of the tent. She pauses just before it, watching carefully for the guard. Strangely, he is gone; no one stands to defend the General’s belongings.

With a feeling of deep unease, she slips inside the tent, hurrying over to the bed.

“And where have you been?” growls a deadly voice. She turns her head towards it, to the fading embers of the fire pit. Her frantic eyes search each of the chairs in turn, finding them all empty…except for the one facing away from her, over the top of which gleams a golden crop of hair.

There was no need for a guard because the General had returned. It dawns on her slowly, alongside the realisation that she has made a grievous error.

The General stalks towards her, his eyes glowing with rage.

“I gave you one command. _What was it_?” he snarls, his fingers gripping and bruising her arm as he towers over her. She cannot make her tongue cooperate.

“What. Was. It?”

“N-not to leave the t-tent,” she whispers, hating the tremor in her voice.

“And yet, you did _exactly that_. Must I tie you to the bed in my absence? Do I have to whip you raw, again, to gain some modicum of obedience?” he hisses, shaking her like a ragdoll and baring his teeth.

“I will never obey you. Never!” she shrieks, overwhelmed by her fear, by the flint fire burning dangerously in his eyes.

He growls, furiously, pushing her onto the bed. She is winded from her earlier exertions, and she struggles to right herself, her gown tangled around her legs. She rolls onto her back, pushing herself away from where the General stands glaring down at her.

“You are a noble woman no longer. You are my slave. You would do well to remember it. Be thankful that I have not branded you, as yet.” She thinks about the women in the cage; their rags, the collars around their necks. She does not want to be one of them, of that she is certain.

His entire demeanour changes in an instant as she watches him, her chest heaving with anxious breathes, wondering if he will change his mind and scar her forever as his own.

“How shall I punish you this time, my disobedient little slave?” he muses, the mocking tone of his voice frightening her more than his blind rage did. Her eyes follow to long line of his arm, her stomach dipping at the sight of the coiled rope gripped in his large fist.

He steps forward, and she scuttles back, though not fast enough to avoid his hand striking out, catching a kicking foot and dragging her back towards him. He climbs onto the bed, straddling her hips. The fight drains out of her, and she does nothing to deter him as he presses her hands to the headboard, tying dizzying knots around her wrists until she can barely move a muscle. “Clearly, you have not learned from a whipping…. _ah_ , I have the perfect solution,” he purrs, his face lit with triumph.

He peels off her gown, leaving the bed and fetching another stretch of rope, which separates her feet and binds them to opposite bed posts. He leaves again, flinging open a large trunk and rifling through its contents; her neck strains painfully, trying to see what it is he is doing. When he turns, she slams her eyes shut, and keeps them so, even as he settles himself between her legs.

The back of his hands stroke and caress the inside of her thighs, tickling at the sensitive flesh. She bites her lips and makes no sound, concedes nothing. Her brows crease as his fingers probe the inner sanctum of her core, her teeth pressing until she tastes the heady flavour of copper on her tongue. For what seems the thousandth time, she wonders: what is this man doing with me?

The scent of flowers and herbs, too intermingled to be separately distinguished, reaches her just as the General’s fingertips return to her folds, drenched in a cool, oily liquid.

Her body tenses, sprung tight as the string on a lyre, as his fingers massage the oil all over her warming flesh, coaxing blood to flow and swell her lips; stimulating the animalistic haze that simmers in her mind, eclipsing all thought of horror and disgust.

“You say you do not want pleasure, but I know that you need it. Spare me your blushes. Your instinct will always come to the fore if you neglect it for too long, my little creature. You _shall_ take the pleasure I give you, and you shall do it willingly,” he murmurs, the harsh texture of his voice turning the words into threats.

She flings her head to the side, gritting her jaw as his ministrations quicken, circling tightly over her secret store of charged pleasure, the warm tingling provided by the oil making the little pearl swell and hunger for more touch.

“No,” she groans, quietly, knowing her pleas to be futile. Of all the cruel and unusual punishments at his command, she curses that gods that this was the one he chose; it is a final ownership, she knows, a type of claiming that differs from the icy, indifferent times prior. She would prefer a whipping, would even beg to exchange it for this.

One of his hands slides slickly across her stomach, reaching for her breasts. She stifles a sob as her flesh swells and pebbles in response to his calloused fingers, trapped as her own body betrays her. It is not the issue of being unchaste that plagues her, nor being unfaithful to her husband- it is the fact that the General is flaying her alive, prying into a part of her that no one else has ever known.

A loud cry escapes from her torn lips as he slips two fingers inside her, twisting and curling them so that they graze places her own digits could never quite reach. Her eyes roll behind her eyelids when his fingertips bump a patch that sends blazes of ice and fire throughout her limbs, so powerful she might mistake it for magic, in other circumstances.

The General huffs a quiet, satisfied laugh, delighted with his discovery. He strokes and rubs the raised nodule in all manner of fashions until all of her muscles twitch as if she had been struck by lightning. He fetches his other hand back, using two fingers to expose that precious little jewel and blowing cool air onto it, knowing that the warming properties of the oil will have twice the effect in contrast.

She is sweating with exertion by this stage, sweat-droplets mixing with teardrops as they slide off her temples and into her now-tangled hair. How can it be? To feel pain and shame and pleasure all at once, to not know where one ended or the other began?

The General, having found the rhythm to undo her, does not falter, stoking the sensations inside her higher and higher. She resolves, silently, not to be quelled, not to surrender to what he wants. But it is hard, hard to be touched so, by another’s hands. None but her own had ever caressed her like this, ever aimed to generate even a modicum of pleasure inside her; never in eight years had her husband sparked even the slightest enjoyment, for all his feeble rutting. How often had she lingered in the baths, wishing that a strong, handsome man would pluck her hands from beneath the water and replace them with his own. How she had longed to be touched, to understand something of the _ecstasy_ her servants discussed in hushed voices when they assumed her unawares. _It is a cruel joke of the Fates, no doubt._

She hears her teeth grinding in her head, feels trails of sweat slide down the sides of her face as she fights as best she can, determined to snatch the General’s victory. He knows he will lose patience, and sure enough, he does, far sooner than she could have hoped.

Her pleasure, though forced, has done nothing to discourage his; he fumbles as he unlaces his breeches, too impatient to actually remove them. His fist coats his length, mimicking the rhythm of the hand urging her to release. His fingers give in, and the hot head of his cock presses against her entrance, sliding slickly inside her and sparing her the usual rough pain of their couplings.

He is determined, deliberately stroking her swollen gem even as his hips stutter, his spine beginning to quiver with impending ecstasy. He cries out, gruffly swearing in a patchwork quilt of languages as his seed spills inside her.

He has lost interest in his goal, and she feels a small, absurd prickling of triumph as he climbs off her, retying his breeches. She is shaken, her muscles strained and sore from tensing, her ankles and wrists chafed from the cruel rope.  The blood thunders through her veins, hot and angry at being denied any pleasure.

And yet, victory is victory.

He unties her ankles and wrists in silence, his skin flushed reddish after his release. She rubs her forearm across her brow, catching the ticklish droplets of sweat, wincing as little pinpricks of pain make themselves known in her hands and feet.

She should have known he would desire to have the last word.

“I must say, you were even more responsive than I had expected,” he remarks, that familiar, cruel smirk tugging at his thin lips. She flushes with embarrassment, glaring at her white fists on the coverlet. She knows the intent behind his words, but it does nothing to prevent the shame rising up in her.

“Do not leave the tent. Next time, I _will_ brand you. Permanently,” he growls, turning on his heel and striding outside, leaving her alone on the bed.

*

They have been in Lavinium not three whole days before he appears in the doorway one evening, wearing an inordinate amount of blood on his skin and clothes. There had been a skirmish, a surprise attack by young civilians who had purposefully hidden in the neighbouring woods when Martius’ band approached the city. They had watched, and plotted, and sought to conquer, but it had all been in vain and now all forty of their heads stared out over the battlements, forever surveying the forest where they spent their last night. All this she has heard from the gossiping servants; save for the heads, those she saw with her own eyes, peering through the narrow windows.

She shudders as his undershirt, heavy with blood, spills onto the marble floor. His face and torso are flecked with small cuts and scrapes, but in truth he wears more of other men’s blood than his own. The only real wound she can see is on his right shoulder, where an old scar has been torn anew. She watches dispassionately as he inspects the wound, prodding at the weeping flesh. It requires cleansing, and stitches, she knows. He strides to the door, wrenching it open and barking orders to a timorous servant boy- ‘fetch a physician!’

She moves not, speaks not. She is at her lowest ebb since her captivity began, almost two moons’ turn hence. The ride to Lavinium had been arduous, bringing back memories of her forced departure from Ardea, which she knew lay only a day’s ride away.  Worst of all had been when the General led her into the palazzo after the conquest was complete. His new prisoners were known to her, acquaintances of her husband; the governor and his wife had dined at her- no, her husband’s- palazzo on several occasions. Their frightened eyes widened in shock as they recognized her, the General’s new whore. She felt a simmering of shame low in her belly, but swiftly cast it off: likely the governor would be dead by nightfall and his wife would wish she was, too. She was a beauty, Amica, a foreigner of Celtic Gaul, with her sea blue eyes and hair like licking flames.

Lucretia expected the General to take the woman as a prize, certainly she was his due. But that night, he had joined _her_ in the governor’s bed, and she had not known what had happened to the Celt. It was only the next morning when she overheard a servant weeping over the death of her mistress that she found the truth; the General had gifted her to his troops, and she had not survived the ensuing squabble for ownership.

She pitied the woman, to be sure. And yet, perhaps death, any death, would be more pleasant than the life she was being forced to endure. A new location did not award her new liberties; the General had her confined to the chamber day and night, a guard posted at the door, and all instruments of potential danger were removed, including the drapes and bed sheets. Not that she would hang herself, anyway. Too slow, too much chance of being discovered and cut down before the deed was done.

And so, here she sits, waiting like a faithful lapdog every day for his return. How it is, how it pains her to realise that she almost looks forward to his arrival, the anxiety that his presence provokes cancelled out by her hunger for human interaction. The guards and servants, though they come and go from dawn to dusk, pay her no more mind than a vase, regardless of whether she is sitting by the window or retching into the chamber pot. She feels invisible, never more so than when he is on top of her, blindly rutting like a wild animal; as if any woman could be there in her stead, any warm body that would yield under him. And yet, at the first opportunity to exchange her, he does not do it.

The servants run in and out like scalded cats, filling the large bath cut into the floor with steaming, perfumed water. The General inspires terror in everyone who crosses his path, and it gives her a modicum to pleasure to note that she is not alone in her fear.

The General glowers as his messenger returns, stuttering as he explains that the physician is occupied with Volscian near-tragedies in the Great Hall, but would His Honour still crave his attendance? The General flicks his fingers, dismissing the boy with instructions to fetch certain ointments and herbs- and a needle and thread, too. She becomes visible again, his tired eyes finding her at last. She is an accomplished seamstress, as all noblewomen are, but she has never sown flesh before. Cleaning and dressing small cuts are naught to her, but a wound such as this, it requires proper, knowledgeable care.

But the General will not hear her excuses. When the servant boy returns, arms full of medical supplies, he places them gingerly at her feet and darts away. The General sits on spindly chair, giving her better access to the wound. It is as long as her index finger and deep, yet surprisingly clean. She feels a quiver of nausea bubble in her stomach, but she is unsure if it is the wound affecting her, or merely the illness that has been plaguing her for the past few days.

She soaks a wad of clean cloth in strong wine and gingerly dabs around the edges of the wound, watching the clench of the General’s jaw and the tight curl of his fingers, rather enjoying the thought of inflicting some pain on him. When she is satisfied that the wound is clean, she peruses the ointments that the boy brought from the physician. All nonsense, she thinks, sniffing at the bottles and trying to make sense of the cramped squiggles inked on the sides. Choosing to forego the dubious ointments, she threads the large butcher’s needle with shaking hands, wondering just how badly the General will punish her if she does more damage than good.

The General clenches the arms of the chair until the old wood creaks beneath his fingers, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps between his teeth as the point of the needle bites into his skin. She does her best to forget his presence, to not think about the fact that she is sewing human flesh, even when she must continually wipe away new-forming blood. She keeps the stitches shallow, attempting not to penetrate too deeply into the skin, though she cannot tell if that is the correct method or no.

A finger’s length seems very long as she trembles inwardly with fear, but at last, the wound is all sewn up, and she inspects the evenness of her stitches, more than a little proud of her endeavours.

The General looks decidedly pale, turning his head to inspect her handiwork as best he can. She cautiously grasps another wine-soaked cloth, attempting to re-cleanse the flesh before bandaging it, but the General flinches, caught unawares and her other hand accidentally slips, brushing against the ugly, raised scar in the shape of a horseshoe that lies in the middle of his arm. A shiver darts up the General’s spine, a shuddering breath escaping from his lips. She drops the rag, hurriedly stepping backwards.

She does not understand what has happened, what has caused that strange look in his eye. It is only a scar, one well-healed by time, so far as she can see. Yet he flinched as though she had inflicted the wound anew.

They stare at one another for a long moment, both chests heaving with strangled breathes. He collects himself first, beckoning her to return to his side and continue. She dresses the wound as swiftly as possible, hardly daring to graze any part of his skin.

He does not thank her, only looks at the carefully-wrapped bandages with something akin to approval before removing his breeches and slipping into the warm bath. She organizes the physicians bottles and tools into a pile by the wall, where no one can trip on them.

“Come here,” he commands, not even looking towards her. She walks hesitantly to the edge of the bath, looking down on him. He leans over to the far side of the bath, and with his good arm fetches a plush cloth.

“Wash me.” His grey eyes dart up to her, hard as flint, not softened in spite of the pain he has endured. She kneels by his shoulders, accepting the cloth though her hands are still streaked with his blood.

The General lies back, resting his weary bones and shutting his eyes as she tends to him, his faithful slave.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defecting to the Volscian army, Coriolanus sets about conquering Roman strongholds. While occupying a walled town, he takes a shine to the governor’s feisty wife, Lucretia, and claims her as a spoil of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for non-con and some emotionally upsetting scenes. I’ll reiterate, this isn’t a pretty story, so please take care if that is likely to bother you.

The sickness does not abate, does not give her any reprieve. Every morning, as soon as the sun is risen, so is she, hunched over a spare chamber pot. Her woman’s blood has left her and a small curve has formed at the base of her flat stomach.

The General, if he notices, says nothing, does nothing. Although, he is less rough these days, she thinks. Perhaps it is merely her imagination.

 

He departs for another successful conquest, aiming to snatch more eggs from Rome’s basket. He does not take her with him, but leaves several soldiers and servants to tend her, to guard her. Alas, they are not in thrall to him; they have a different master, and he is no friend to Martius, no matter how often he may smile and call him brother.

They wait two whole days, enough time to be certain that Martius is far, far away, before two of the young servant boys convey her to another, grander tent.

Aufidius, that black bear, sits waiting for her in a high-backed throne. He dismisses his own slaves, preening, pretty girls who glare enviously and hiss at her as they leave. She stares at the carpet beneath his boots, twisting her stiff fingers through one another.

She has thought often about this moment, idly wondering when he would summon her. She could not have explained  _why_  nor how she knew this would come to pass. But know she did, and happen it has.

“What is your name?” he asks, his gruff voice struggling to sound soft and interested. She bites her lip and frowns, her mind skittering to comprehend the game he wishes to play.

“Lucretia, my lord.” Her own words are quiet, easily soft with fear. A shining blade cuts shards of light around the dim tent, spinning through his nimble fingers as he watches her.

“Master,” he corrects her. She knows his meaning well. A person may only have one master. His plan shimmers into shapes behind her eyelids; he is asking her to betray the traitor. No, not asking. One always agrees with the knife pointed at their throat, not the one many miles away.

She glances up at him, a darting stare, but indicates nothing, agrees to nothing.

His voice dips to a low, rich purr. “Lucretia, you are a noblewoman, I know. I can see it in your carriage. You are clever, accomplished,” he says, words dripping in flattery, “And yet Martius treats you like a vapid animal. I know that you are bored, how not? He leaves you to do nothing all day, to waste away until he has need of you at night. You have no amusements, no companions. It is a cruel fate, for a lady such as you. Would you like to be free?” He croons the last question, and she knows it is a trap. So why does her heart leap, why does fragile hope paint itself across her features, right where he can see it?

“Of course you do!” he answers himself, not waiting for her to speak. “And I can grant it to you. But you must do something for me, in return.”  _Of course_ , she thinks,  _I will betray Martius and then you will betray me_. He is not lying, though; she will be free. Death is a type of freedom.

He wants her to answer this time, before he says something he ought not to an enemy.

“Yes, master.”

“Very good. It is not dangerous, but it will keep you occupied. I want you to gather any scraps of information you can about Martius, who he talks to, what he says. Anything concerning Rome, you will tell me about. Nothing is too small, too frivolous. Understood?” He is not flattering her anymore; he has no need to cosset her now that she has agreed to be his informer.

“Yes, master,” she repeats, as if by rote.  _Yes, always yes. Never tell them no, never make yourself a difficulty._  She has learned a different way of being, in five full moons of captivity.

He nods, satisfied, and points to the floor before him.

“Lie down,” he commands. At least Martius gave her the dignity of being fucked in a bed. He does not tell her to remove her gown, merely pulling it over her hips as he lies on top of her.

It is strange to see him up close; his features are broad and coarse, his skin swarthy and faintly scarred.

Their eyes are the same. Black, like coals. Like men’s souls.

Martius’ eyes, they are the colour of a choppy sea in the depths of winter-cold and grey and troubled. She saw a sea like that, once, on the twisting, tossing journey from the Isle of Sicily, travelling to become a new, sweet bride.

“When last did he have you?” His breath tickles her cheek, the back of his hand grazes her belly as he struggles to unlace his breeches and brace himself above her.

She casts the line of her mind back. Not far.

“Before he departed. Two days hence, master.” Aufidius shudders above her.

“Two days. His seed may still be inside you,” he whispers, reverently. And so, the rumours are true, as they often are. Every rumour has a grain of truth in it. Not uncommon, for man to lust after his own image. But two such enemies. Now friends. What difference between love and hate?

She had thought the General made her feel invisible when she is lying under him, but with Aufidius, she knows that he is imagining someone else, a body that would never yield under him, except in his dreams. She is not disgusted, nor perturbed; she merely waits for him to finish, unthinking and unfeeling.

When all is said and done, he rearranges his clothes and sits back in his chair. She pulls herself to her feet, patting her gown back into place, hiding the evidence of their illicit coupling that trickles down her legs.

Aufidius calls for the servant boys, and they return her to the tent, to resume her captivity. She travels back and forth every day, an invisible connection between the two men.

The General has been gone for almost six weeks, and she expects that he may have died, or been captured. Eavesdropping tells her that, no, he has ridden with his band to subdue an uprising in one of his previous conquests: Ardea.

Her heart clenches with terror, imagining him returning to her former home. She cares not for the citizens, not even for her husband.

She thinks of Pomponia, sweet Pomponia. Is she safe? The General left over eighty men garrisoned in the town. Even if he had ordered them to leave the pretty senator’s daughter alone, would they listen, obey in his absence? Is Pomponia, like her, lying in a bed, heavy with child, staring upwards and pondering where her life went? Or is she dead, her bones wilted in the ground these past months?

Her belly has swollen drastically of late, leaving no doubt as to her condition. She cannot unravel her feelings for the babe that grows inside her. After years of barrenness, she should be happy, overjoyed at this gift of the gods. And yet, it is a child of violence, of cruelty. Its father is a monster in human skin.

He returns, two moon’s turn after his departure. When his eyes land on her round stomach and fuller breasts, a slow, satisfied smile seeps onto his face.

He tells her nothing of Ardea, gives nothing away voluntarily. She knows better than to ask, but she listens. She hears everything, and learns that being invisible has its advantages.

She dares not leave the tent when the General is in camp, but several of the servant boys who bring her meals belong to Aufidius, and she communicates to them in broken Volscian what she has learned. She does not know if it is of use, but every day when they sneak through the entrance, they look to her for new information. If the General suspects anything, he shows no concern.

He takes her less now, perhaps in reluctant deference to her condition. It should be a more pleasant time for her, but he is a hungry man, and he brings all manner of other slaves to the tent in order to sate his appetite. She curls up in the chairs by the fire, her head clamped between her arms as the whores on the bed moan, and cry for fake joy as the bedframe creaks in protest at his animal fury. He has a different woman almost every night, and she cringes on the evens when he reaches for her, content to be a little more gentle on that particular day.

Her time is nearly due when the General decides to conquer another town. He has been like a caged animal, prowling around the camp, eager for bloodshed and strife.

She dutifully walks to Aufidius’ tent, relaying all of the information she has learned of late in detailed Latin. But this does not last long, as the weight of her stomach eventually makes walking nigh impossible. Her time has come.

There are no midwives in the camp, only male healers and apothecaries who have more practice with wounds than delivering babes. Her trio of companions are all mothers, fellow slaves, full of experience but uncertain in their knowledge. They rally around her, tying straps to the bed for her to hold onto, giving her a block of soft wood to wedge between her teeth when it becomes too much, urging her to ‘Push! Push!  _Push!’_

The pain is too much, greater than anything she has ever experienced; greater than anything she thought she could endure. Her body is ripped apart, and yet, she lives still.

It is a boy, they announce reverently. She sags with relief, glad that she has not brought another girl into this ugly world, to suffer as she has.

She loves him at once, that pink, yowling, slimy little creature. Look, how he grabs her finger, tiny digits wrapping around hers. His hair, when washed free of blood, shines like fine strands of gold. His eyelids are only half open, showing crescents of blue. It is true of all babes, but it frightens her- he is half his father, as if she had forgotten.

After the birth, she thanks the trio through chapped lips and a throat grated raw with screams. They all nod, their eyes solemn with knowledge of what is to come for this new mother. One stays the night, teaching Lucretia to take her child to the breast and understand the pleas behind its cries.

She is not invisible any longer; there is a person, a tiny little person who looks at her as if she were the shining sun, little giggles bubbling from his pink lips when he lays his big blue eyes upon her, his fat little fists beckoning her closer. She caresses him, pets him, feeds him constantly; there is scarce a minute of the day that he is not cocooned in her arms, a warm soft weight held close to her heart.

The General does not return, and Aufidius has no need of her for the present. It is just her and her dear little boy, alone in the world, but together.

*

It has been weeks of blissful idyll, when she hears the General’s voice without, her mind and muscles instantly tensing with fear. So, he has returned, after almost three moons of absence. He strides into the tent, demanding “Where is the child?”

She points to where the babe lies, sleeping, and grimaces as the General awakens him, pulling off his winding sheets and inspecting each flailing limb with care.

“He is big, and strong. Like his father,” the General remarks, smiling with satisfaction. She says nothing, merely staring at her squalling infant, feeling that internal urge to rush to him and placate him. But she dares not interfere with whatever  _he_ is doing.

“He must away, to Atina,” he murmurs, almost to himself. She stares at him, dumbfounded.  _Atina? Is the camp moving there?_  She wonders.  _But it is so far- days and days away_ …

“N-no! Why?” The meaning of his look slowly seeps into her understanding, and terror strikes straight at her heart.

“He requires a nurse-”

“I can feed him! I have been. Please,  _please_ , do not take him from me!” She pleads, running towards him. He turns from the screaming baby, catching her arms before she can attack him and twisting them painfully behind her back.

“He is not yours. He is mine, as you are. He is my son, and though a bastard, he will be raised well in Atina. A future warrior,” he says, his voice as sharp and calm as hers is broken and tremulous.

“Please, I beg of you-”

“Beg all you wish. It will not sway my mind. A war camp is no place for an infant,” he says sternly, his steady grey eyes watching her carefully.

“Then send me away with him!” It is a useless plea, she knows, but she must try everything in her power, everything to stay with her little boy.

The General smirks coldly, amused by her gall. “No,  _slave_. Your place is here, with me.”

She does not sleep that night. She sits on the hard ground, cradling her baby and wishing that there was a way for them to escape, to run away. But the General does not leave the tent, and the entrance is guarded through the night. What use would it be, even if they could escape? She would not know in which direction to travel, or how to find food. They would not survive a single day in this harsh landscape.

She does not think she can survive without him, her little beloved, her sweet son. But…he may have a chance of surviving without her, the chance of a better life. The life of a nobleman’s bastard, instead of a slave’s.

Morning comes, and she waits for the axe to fall. The General demands that she hand over the baby, now, to the servants before they depart for Atina. She refuses. She has to fight, even if it is hopeless. He asks again, less kindly this time. Again, she replies ‘no’, cowering in a corner of the tent, wrapping herself like a shield around her baby. He warns her that the baby may be harmed if there is a struggle. Does he even care for his own son?

She sobs and begs for him to change his mind, but he is stone: hard and immovable. Her shrieks rise with her son’s as the General, finished with patience, plucks the baby from her arms and hands it to a waiting servant.

“No!  _No!_  Stop, please, do not take him!” Her voice is like metal scraping against metal, grating the ears of the servants, whose eyes betray them as they watch her with pity. It is a tableau that they have seen many times before. The camp is full of ghostly infants, all snatched from their poor mothers’ arms.

The General constricts her in his grip, struggling to pin her flailing arms by her sides. She kicks and stamps and shouts and snarls and tosses her head, forgetting her human self, forgetting herself entirely. She is only emotion and action, no conscience nor sense.

He shouts at the servants, bellowing at them to leave, and swiftly. They quiver, pity wiped off their faces by fear, and quickly dart out of the tent. Her eyes slow down time, drinking in every facet of her sweet son before the curtain closes. Her ears strain to hear his answering cries long minutes after they have faded away.

Her throat is raw from screaming, her eyes stung with tears, her head pulsing and pounding as if it is being squeezed in a vice. She is barely aware of the General’s grip on her, his commands to be silent rolling off her like waves.

Many minutes pass, but still she screams, still she struggles, her heart hammering to flee and catch up with her baby, and snatch him back from those thieves.

The General, either uncaring or unsettled in face of her outpouring of emotions, chooses to tie her to the bed, swearing to himself that it is only a measure to prevent her from injuring herself. As he watches her, fighting futilely against her bonds, a small flicker of understanding raises unbidden in his mind. If ever their son was threatened, he knows that Virgilia would be no less fierce, no less frenzied in her attempts to protect him.

But it is a rule of the camp, that no infants may remain. And the General lives by rules, no matter how much he may bend them to suit his own needs.

The transformation from docile, obedient slave to the raving, wild woman on his bed is an unwelcome sight. And so he leaves the tent, wiping the blood from his nose, and vowing to gut and burn alive any guard who attempts to assist her, or allow her to walk free.

When the General leaves, she understands that it is over, this battle. It is too late, too late to reverse what has happened. Her mind, only moments before charged by panic and anger, has sunk into a bottomless abyss of shock. It is nothing she has ever felt before; the sensation of her heart dying inside her chest, wondering why the rest of her body keeps living.

It is no game, no diversion any longer. She promises herself that she will see Coriolanus dead, and she will do everything in her meagre power to speed it to fruition.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, and so very long overdue! Apologies to anyone who has been waiting.   
> Please beware, this chapter contains: graphic violence and major character death (well, I can't mess with Shakespeare too much, now can I?)  
> I hope you enjoy!

She considers asking Aufidius about her son, but with the General ever-present at camp, she has no opportunity to enquire in person, and she does not trust the other slaves, unsure of who is in thrall to whom. Webs of deceit soon tangle, she discovers. Besides, she has no goods, no means of bribery to convince another slave to find out what she so desperately needs to know. Her hours –waking and sleeping- are filled with fears for her precious boy, nightmares of an accident in the journey to Atina haunting her every step. It soon becomes too much to bear, and so, she plucks up the gall to ask the General himself, one quiet evening as they sit by the fire.

“I do not recall giving you permission to speak out of turn,” he warns, cutting her pleading enquiry in half.

“Please, I-”

“It is not for _you_ to question _me_!” he snarls, with such vehement poison in his tone and look that she recoils, her shadowed eyes leaking tears. She has shed so many tears these past few days, she thinks it is a wonder her eyes have not completely dried up. It is hopeless, he will tell her nothing, just as she had feared. She pretends to fetch him more wine, hastily scrubbing the tears from her chapped cheeks.

“They arrived safely a week ago,” a quiet voice says. She freezes, cautiously glancing over her shoulder in search of the source. The General stares deeply into the flames, his expression giving no indication that he has spoken. His voice was so often raised in ire or derisive scorn when it addressed her that she does not recognize that deep, soft voice as belonging to him. Perhaps it is the flames, conveying a message from the Gods to a grieving mother. A silly fantasy, she chides herself, the Gods do not exist, and even if they did…well, she lost her faith in them long ago.

*

The wheel of Fate begins to set itself in motion: it is time for them to move on. Aufidius is giving Martius what he has hungered after for so long- the chance to take Rome itself, an end to the war.

The entire camp collapses around her as they begin their exodus northwards. Lucretia, grasping the pommel as she sits before Martius, keeps her eyes pinned to the east, silently willing the horse to turn and bolt towards Atina. If only, she thinks. If only. The best outcome, as she sees it, is that by some miracle, some twist of Fate, both Martius and Aufidius die in battle and she is able to flee the city, and head eastwards. The chances of the stars aligning just so are, as she well knows, very slim. But she allows herself that small sliver of hope as they rove from Volscian town to Volscian town, barely settling for the night before they are on the move again.

They travel four weary days, the camp followers and slaves almost a day ahead as they trudge on foot, dragging wagons of weapons and belongings. It is like a whole city is on the move, Lucretia muses, shocked by the volume that had been so deceptively hidden by the labyrinthine camp at Antium.

What if neither Martius nor Aufidius die in the sieging of Rome? If even one of them lives, she will still be a slave, the only difference being she would be a slave living in the Capitol. No, they both have to die. Two of the strongest, most cunning and best guarded men in the land will have to die in order to secure her freedom.

Or…could she flee _during_ the battle? They will both be occupied, waging war on the city. They will need every soldier, every set of limbs to achieve their goal. She may only be guarded by other slaves and servants.

Her thoughts flicker like so for the duration of their final day, and even as the camp settles down for the night in its new position one day away from Rome, she dreams of escape.

**

The soldiers rest for two days, re-building their strength after the arduous journey. Meanwhile, Aufidius sends scouts and spies towards the Capitol, eager to keep a watchful eye on any movements to or from the City.

Martius volunteers to scout towards Gabii, a newly conquered town situated mere hours from the Capitol that will prove useful to whomever holds it when the battle rages. He insists on bringing a small household guard with him, and naturally, his bedslave. Lucretia does not understand why Martius feels he himself must secure the town, but she says nothing as she is forced to endure another day in the saddle.

The reasons for Martius’ enthusiasm appear at their small camp outside the walls of Gabii, long after night has fallen. Lucretia watches the cloaked figures with keen interest, her eyes picking out their shapes in the dark. She is certain she sees women, three by her count. And a young child, tripping and trailing after them.

A guard comes to fetch the General. He does not say who the figures are, describing them as ‘guests’. Lucretia feels her chest flutter, her blood spiking with adrenaline as she realises something secret is afoot. Something that may be useful to Aufidius…to her.

She knows the General is married, knows he has a trueborn son, an heir. She knows not of the other two women, thinking perhaps that they too are slaves.

She treads in soft circles around the tent, her eyes darting to the slit of the entrance every time she passes. Her keen eyes can just make out the five figures, huddled together. She ponders the significance of this visit, boredom coaxing her mind to reclaim its faculties. She has been akin to a dead woman walking, in the weeks since her son was taken from her.

Martius received another visitor the day before, she recalls, her memory sluggishly remembering the details. The man was older, with thinning hair and a soft body that spoke of an equally soft life. He spoke in Roman syllables, crisp, clear and educated. He did not stay long, but his short audience left Martius in the foulest of moods, and she, of course, paid the price of it.

Women do not come to visit a warrior for no reason; these are no strangers. They are his family, she is sure of it. Why are they here, in the midst of a war?

They live in Rome, she knows. Martius is a Roman through and through, for all that he now hates his native city. The women would not want any harm to come to their home. As someone who has seen her home torn apart by soldiers, Lucretia understands their fear, understands what may motivate them to plead with a man as cold and hard as her master.

She must convey all of this to Aufidius, as swiftly as possible. Yet she sees none of the usual spies in attendance on this small band of soldiers, and speaking to the wrong man will mean death. She must tell Aufidius herself, face to face.

Another turn past the sliver of an entrance and her heart lurches, feet coming to an abrupt halt as she witnesses the tall silhouette of Martius bend down to embrace the small shadow of his son.

Her insides quake with anger as she lies down on the pallet, eager to return to the Volscians.

*

She seeks out a familiar spy within hours of their return to the base camp outside Rome, pouring out the details of what she witnessed in Gabii. She does not add that the General seems a changed man, even more quiet than usual after the clandestine meeting. Aufidius will note this for himself.

 Martius immediately departs for a meeting with the other leaders, completely oblivious to the fact that his slave has finally betrayed him.

Lucretia lies on his bed, a faint smile etched upon the lines at the corners of her eyes. Her part is done; now she must wait for Fate to do its job.

*

The days leading up the battle of Rome drag on, the atmosphere of the camp strung tight with anticipation.

Perhaps that explains Martius’ peculiar behaviour, she reasons, watching him intently from her place by the fire. He has not touched her in days. When he looks at her, his eyes no longer slide past as if she were invisible. It unnerves her, the feeling of finally being seen again, after months of becoming steadily tinier under his blatant disinterest.

 _He knows,_ whispers the voice in her head.

 _He knows what you have done_. She tries to silence it, but whenever his eyes flicker over her, gauging her, a shred of fear flutters in her chest.

Two days before the battle, he strides into the tent, beckoning for her to sit on the bed. She bites back her revulsion, obediently crossing the tent and perching like a little bird.

Martius holds a hand behind his back, and for one hysterical moment she thinks he hides a blade, ready to run her through for her betrayal.

He stares at her a moment too long, then half tosses a band of gold into her lap.

“I want you to wear it, at all times,” he says, another command.

Lucretia stares down at the collar, her fingertips slipping over the familiar grooves of the snake’s scales. She glances up at him, seeking answers, but his eyes are as hard and unfathomable as the snake’s. She places it around her neck with shaking hands, and he nods slightly in approval. She does not investigate the blade in his presence, but when she thinks he is not looking, she slides her thumbnail beneath the snake’s jaws, her ears pricking at the barely distinguishable sound of the blade crooning to be released. It means something, she is certain. He has not only given her a weapon. He has given her a message.

Almost time.

*

The morning before the day of battle, when the camp is beginning to awake with a thrum of activity, Martius watches her, eagle-eyed, as she serves him an early breakfast.

He looks remarkably calm for a man on the brink of battle; she knows there is much work to be done, organizing the soldiers and all of their weapons and stratagems.

Martius commands the guard on watch duty to saddle a horse for him. She frowns in confusion, but says naught, quietly mending a tear in one of her gowns.

Martius breaks the comfortable silence.

“My wife has a new baby in her household,” he says, as if speaking to himself. Lucretia glances warily over at him, wondering if the grief his family has imparted upon him has rendered him insane. She says nothing.

“He looks like me, I think. His mother is dark, though you cannot tell to look at him,” he continues, still speaking pensively to the dwindling flames.

Her breath catches in her throat as she finally catches his meaning. His stone grey eyes flicker to meet hers, holding the gaze as a type of confirmation. She feels as though her gut has fallen from her body, every fibre of her being twisting with shock.

She can only stare at him, mute, as he strides from the tent.

 _Why?_ She wonders. Why go to such trouble to torment me, only to tell me the truth later? When it is too late.

Perhaps it is a jest, to trick her into letting hope back inside.

But then she remembers the look in his eyes- she saw no lies there.

Her baby, her precious little boy is in Rome, ensconced in the house of Martius.

Gods be good, let there be no war in Rome, she prays.

*

The camp is in uproar, the air crackling with fury as she is hauled from the tent and brought before Aufidius.

His eyes are black sparks, utterly livid. But he says nothing as she is hoisted onto the saddle before him.

The camp has disintegrated, seemingly packing up while she slept.

The cavalcade turn south, thundering towards Antium, and still, no one tells her anything.

But she knows; her turn coat master has turned coats once more.

She hopes it is enough to save her son.

*

They do not have to wait long for Martius to make his return. Lucretia cannot help but feel slightly impressed by his bravery; returning to a place where he must surely know that only death awaits him.

Aufidius is terrifying in his rage, and she wonders that she ever thought him soft and harmless. The veneer of boyish good humour was just that, a veneer. He snarls and spits and thunders as well as Martius ever did, his words all of a similar variation: _traitor, betrayal, tricks._

He is wounded by Martius’ duplicity, she sees, and his fury puzzles her. How could anyone trust a man who had abandoned his own city for its greatest enemy, all because of wounded pride? Martius was certainly no ally she would ever wish, if she had been a war-mongering man.

It is night time when Martius appears, flanked by several guards. He is not even armed properly, only a small sword hanging on either side of his narrow hips. She waits for Aufidius to order her from the tent, but he has forgotten her presence.

Martius’ eyes flicker to her, once, almost the minute he entered the lion’s den. But she can no more read his expression now than over the past year of her enslavement. She finds herself wishing to see fear, helplessness…emotions he had branded onto her very person, over and over again. But he remains stoic and stone-like, and she is left to worry about her son as the men raise their voices, all desperate to be heard at this crucial moment.

All want Martius’ head; he has gone from enemy to hero to traitor and now he must bleed.

Aufidius has been the quietest, but when he speaks, it is to deny Martius his honorary title, earned in his one-man siege against Corioli. Something flickers in the marble countenance of her master, and she knows that he understands the gravity of Aufidius’ words. They were never friends, never allies, certainly never brothers. History has been rewritten inside the fragile space of the tent. Caius Martius is the Volscian’s greatest enemy, and they finally have him at their mercy.

Lucretia finds herself drifting along behind the group of generals and soldiers as they march Martius out of the tent, through the core of the camp to its tattered edges. She hovers at the side-line, watching as they string an seemingly indifferent, pliant Martius up by his feet. It is a strange method of execution, she muses, wondering if their rage and bloodlust has caused them to hang him up incorrectly.

Martius struggles for a brief moment, a natural instinct to fight against his oncoming death as Aufidius approaches, a wicked, curved blade in his hand. She hears the low murmur of his voice, see the reddish hue of Martius’ face as the blood rushes to his head, and then­-

The blade bites into the cords of his throat, severing the networks of his life’s blood, which rushes forth at the opportunity to escape. The reddish darkness gathers, swelling and engulfing his throat and the shocked expression on his face. She hears a cry of anguish, faintly in the distance. It is only as Aufidius turns to her, face black with murder that she realises it was her own voice. Without thought, she slides the blade from her neck, charging towards him.

She manages to tear a welt in the side of his face, but it is the only wound she manages to inflict, as his great hand seizes her bony wrist, tugging and twisting until she is forced to release the blade, staggering to the ground. His guards waver around the edges of their triangle, but Aufidius pounces, snarling as he catches her throat in his paw, the other plunging her own blade through the thin barrier of flesh and sinew into the cavity of her chest.

Pain explodes at the corners of her vision, specks of violent white combining with shots of fiery adrenaline through her body as she scrambles to remove the blade, a faulty instinct that catches so many. Specks of warmth drop onto her head, sliding down over her face and neck. Dazed, she glances up, recoiling at the sight of Martius’ blank face coated with the blood that spills from the gap in his throat. She tries to move away from the macabre display, but her body has ceased to have control over itself, her limbs flailing limply as she falls onto her back.

She sees nothing but the black of the night sky, pinpricked with innumerable silver dots, which merge with the specks flickering across her own eyes. The body of her former master rotates above her, like a nightmarish chandelier.

Her hands grasp uselessly at the wet wound between her ribs, as if they could stop the red tide by sheer force of will. She gasps for rattled breathes and thinks of her son, how sorry she is to know that she will miss his life, that he will likely never know of her.

So she makes a bargain, as the dying so often do. She promises the black sky and the stars –no gods, she has severed herself from their poor idea of mercy long ago- she promises to die, to fade into their blackness, if only they promise to watch over her sweet son for all his days. When this is accomplished, she feels the energy drain out of her, purged along with the blood hastily escaping the bonds of her body.

Her fading eyes roll towards Martius one last time, a farewell of sorts, for all that he made her suffer, for all that she hated him and wished him dead. He gave her a kind of love she had never before known, a legacy in the form of a perfect golden son.

The poets wrote at length on the beauty and nobility of death. But as her warm, blackish lifeblood pumps into her own palms, all Lucretia feels is pain and loss…and something akin to regret.


End file.
